Unwanted
by Rasiaa
Summary: History remembers action. It never remembers emotion.


They would never understand.

She stood on rocks, watching the battle commence with narrowed eyes. Flashes of red mixed with the black of her army, and she saw many familiar faces that made her heart stop. Timothy had been a squire when she left, but he had always been incredibly kind to her. Kendrick was an older knight, one who had served under King Uther and had two children. She sighed, her gaze drifting away from the knights of Camelot- her foul brother's men- to her lieutenant, Mordred. As he slashed down men left and right, she could see the grief in his eyes building.

Unlike them, she understood. Mordred was forgiven.

She moved along the rocks, her hand trailing along the stones. She felt the mountain shift under her hand, small stones loosing when she pulled on them. Like the stones, her heart was breaking, not only for the loss of her people, but also for the loss of herself. This isn't what she wanted.

They made herself and her people into monsters. They were afraid of what they didn't understand. In retaliation, her people lashed out, afraid for their lives, and wanting nothing more than peace. She was no different than the rest of her kind.

Peace was never granted to those who were not in power and who were hated and feared by those who held the power. It was one of the unfair facts of life.

Her lips thinned, her shoulders straightened, and she swept her skits behind her. Her eyes looked up as she felt the magic crackle through the air- a familiar, unpleasant feeling of fear and misplaced safety sweeping through her. Through the large flashes of light, her eyes sought the figure atop the mountain across the pass, and a scream was ripped from her throat when she located him.

"_Emrys!_"

…

His sight was not clear. His vision swam with tears that were not allowed to fall, even as his throat was torn from cries of battle and screams of hatred and longing.

Emrys had warned him, in a roundabout way. Quiet words and distance, kindness and fear, Emrys had warned him and Morgana both.

He was too young for this. He was too naïve, too eager to prove himself. And in that sincere ignorance, he had meddled with the wrong magic, the wrong people, and signed his own death warrant, along with several others'.

All he wanted was for Emrys to trust him, to guide him, to be the kind, selfless person he was for everyone else. He wanted Emrys to be the king the stories had always made him out to be.

In a moment of pause in the battle, he leaned heavily on the side of a mountain and took a shaky breath. He had learned the hard way that stories were just stories, and even when they were supposed to be real, reality had a way of always being different.

Footsteps echoed around the corner. They broke the silence that had descended since Emrys had retreated from the battle. With a flash of gold, his vision shifted, and he saw Arthur bent over a fallen soldier. His heart clenched, and he recalled the looks and subtle warnings of Emrys. Destiny was never kind to those she favored.

His head slammed against the mountain, and he regained control of his emotions.

This was not the way it was supposed to end. His hand tightened on his sword.

He did not want to destroy his last chance. But destiny bade him no relief, and without his consent, he rounded the corner, and what followed was a blur of bloody red.

…

Ten years, he had given, and for what?

He did not have his freedom.

He did not have his peoples' trust.

He did not have his friends and family.

He did not have his lover anymore.

He did not have his best friend.

He would not go back, he knew. There really was no point. He stood, dusted off his trousers, and turned on his heel. Wind roared in his ears, and the cries of the dead and dying echoed in his mind.

He turned around. The flags of Camelot flew, immortal, in the corner of his eye as he gazed upon the Darkling Woods. They blurred, and he brushed away his tears with an angry hand. Turning around, he stalked off, leaving his entire life behind.

Eventually, he made it to a clearing; where he dropped to his knees, digging his fingers harshly into the soft, damp ground.

Destiny was a bitch, he decided again, rocking back on his heels. He looked up at the sky, and he blinked.

The queen was nearly dead, and most of the knights were already gone, buried, and forgotten. He blinked again.

The world changed around him, but he remained, and every year, he knew that he would never be able to atone for his mistakes. This was never, ever, what he wanted.

* * *

><p><em>I love it when writer's block lifts. It's such a freeing feeling.<br>_


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